


becoming

by impetuousfool



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, post ep 160 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24191308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impetuousfool/pseuds/impetuousfool
Summary: a character study of jonathan sims during the ep mag162 - a cosy cabin.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22





	becoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [holyteeth_prd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyteeth_prd/gifts).



> cw: rot & putrefaction, lack of control, body horror
> 
> inspired by [this gorgeous art](https://twitter.com/HolyTeethPrd/status/1258127656211689472) by gabriel. please go check out the rest of his art!! he's super talented and is a dear friend of mine.
> 
> also!! thank you once again to nate for betaing this.

a body no longer his, marked and scarred, imprinted on by gods and powers unseen, simply a chess piece in someone else’s game for some warped idea of fun. he was no stranger to being used, to having his agency stripped from him as someone else spoke through him, channelled him to feed their god, or to feed  _ him  _ to his own. unwilling turned willing, he feasted where he could, craved the dwindling burn of nourishment, but hated himself more every day for having such power fuelled by the corpses of the world. 

he spent his nights nestled in the warm arms of a man brimming with love for some _ thing _ so monstrous, a battered soul owned not by himself but the world’s new omniscient overlords blinking in the sky, a temporary balm against the agonising screams of the damned rattling at the cabin’s windows, hammering on its door. their own rotten world, free to marinate in its suffocating putrefaction. 

there he remained, reeking of the necrotic promise of safety within shifting, starved walls, a home that breathed stale air with them and crushed them with every inhale. it seemed so warm, so welcoming, but the more he looked, the more he saw the damp patches, the creeping rot that ached to consume them, to envelope them in its fungal arms. he heard it whisper in the depths of the night, the darkest moments when the figure beside him was fast asleep and suspended in dreamless silence. it itched beneath gossamer skin, squirmed under pockmark scars where the hive and its worms had burrowed into him, infested him with its mark before he’d begun to understand the weight of this infernal war. 

and what were wars without weapons? the gods had their fear, and this apocalyptic hellscape provided free range fear. but it was a second-hand, distilled anguish, unsatisfactory for the  _ things _ that thrived on the terror of the uncanny valley and the horror of being unseen, a fear filtered through the endless gaze of the never-ending sky.  _ the eye.  _ his patron, the universe’s quiet observer, pouring the world’s pain into his mind, marvelling in its tainted abomination.

_ this is your home, and here you can be safe, as you putrefy, body and soul. _

he felt mouldy bitterness tinge his tongue, spread through his limbs where he sat collapsed on the ground in front of a choking fire. all of it suffocating, puppet lips that sung along to an invisible hum, an all-consuming, convulsing love from someone else’s god carved into his flesh. and he wanted to hide from it, to flee and bury himself in the arms of his beloved, just as much as he wanted to lose himself in it, to feel himself blossom, green and blue and  _ beautiful. _

_ this place wishes to be our tomb. but the eye does not wish that. _

the shrill hum was nothing in the face of the eye’s drowning waves, once a crushing weight against the threshold of his humanity, now an overwhelming sea of visions and nightmares, the unyielding thirst to know and drink in the rewards of his destruction. a becoming like no other, steeped in the deaths of billions, a  _ thing _ covered in the vile stench of blood, unforgettable, unforgivable. 

_ no, the eye wishes instead that it be my chrysalis. it is time that i emerge. _

his body gradually returned to him, a prickling sensation of knowing and monstrous desire, limbs revived in a perverted rebirth, his eyes open, aglow with the ceaseless watcher’s horrors. and he stood, christened under the gaze of his patron, reawakened under the title of  _ archivist,  _ the living embodiment of the eye’s great works. he burned with it, with the rushing fears of the fourteen, and he saw jonah sat on his wretched throne of deceptive bones, his eyes rolling comfortably in elias bouchard’s skull, a rage like no other consuming him. a devastating need to end him. 


End file.
